The Adventures of Eragon the Dragon Man
by Bellatrix567
Summary: Complete and total crackfic, complete with too many references, too much swearing, and too many unneeded sex references. Pissed off with constant bullying about his name and even more pissed off that the freakin' birdface men stole his box of condoms, Eragon sets off with the fat old perv Broom and his new winged lizard which sexts him telepathically to go kill the king. Do enjoy.
1. Chapter 1

**Beware: I am not exactly what one would call an Eragon fan. This is pure crackfic with far too many references. As most of it is written whilst I am in a state of extreme tiredness often coupled with an extreme sugar high (generally to the point where I will stay up late talking to myself), it isn't the best of writing. In fact, it's rather awful writing, but I felt like posting something, so here you go. Enjoy. Or not. Most likely you will do the latter. Flames will be unsurprising.**

_Once, in the time of legends, there was a man. He was a great king - he stood like a king and everything - he was so great that he was not even a man. Well, he was. Just an obscenely old man. But he looked like a moderately old man. He was with a beautiful woman who was also old, but she looked young. So it looked like pedophilia, but really, she was the one who was going to make it to five hundred. His name was..._

But that man has nothing to do with the topic at hand. Nothing. At all. We aren't even going to tell you his name, that's how unimportant he was. No, you shall not know his name. Nor anything at all about the place he lived in. Except that there were Orcs. Don't ask what they looked like.

Anyway...

Once there was a young lad named Aragorn Eragon. He was fifteen, but he looked like he was about five. This is because the people of... oh wait, wrong man. Okay, Eragon was fifteen, and he looked fifteen, thank you very much. He only acted like he was five. Unlike that other one... nevermind.

Anyway, Eragon was trying to shoot a deer. He was a very good hunter, and the deer was about five feet away, but then guess what? Some hooligans started shooting off fireworks! The deer ran away before Eragon could catch up.

"Húta!" Eragon said, cursing in fluent Tolkien's Elvish the Ancient Language. Oh, wait, he doesn't know it... nevermind, that was a misquote.

"FUCK LIFE!" Eragon said, cursing in fluent Language Which Boring Humans Speak. Then he turned around and saw a rock.

"Oooooooooooh, a rock!" Eragon said. "Well, I had better take this eighty-pound rock back with me. You never know when you need an eighty-pound rock, especially when you're on a mountain and you have to hike back!" So saying, he hefted up the eighty-pound rock and stuffed it in his backpack. Maybe he could wrap it up and trick his uncle and cousin into thinking it was meat.

Eragon got back to Pail-and-Car Valley several months later. The valley was named for looking like a bucket, and the word 'car' was one from the Ancient Language. It was said that it meant 'wagon.' Most people didn't go into the dangerous mountains called A Mountain, but Eragon braved the woods to bring meat back to his starving family. Or, in some cases, eighty-pound rocks.

But have we mentioned that this is a very pretty rock? Well, it was blue and covered in white lines, which makes for much beauty. It was also very hard - Eragon dropped it on his toe on several occasions, as well as on his skull, and it never broke. His skull cracked first. He tested it.

Eragon reached Pail-and-Car Valley by nightfall. It was cold, and he shivered all the way home. He tried to sell his pretty rock to the butcher, but he was afraid the bitter, hobbit-like old man would try to cut apart his poor rock! He had to take it back, even as the butcher offered him an entire hog for it.

"Aragorn," said Eragon's uncle, Amycus Carrow. "Glad you've come home."

"It's Eragon," Eragon said, not keen to put up with his stupid old uncle tonight. Oh, if only his beautiful, responsible, wise and diligent mother hadn't left him here with this man. Eragon's mother was named Alecto, and that was all he knew. Amycus told him that his mother frequented taverns, especially at night, even though she was a lady. She came here one day, very pregnant, then gave birth. Sobbing, she insisted Amycus take the child. "I must," was all she said. Amycus supposed she didn't want a bastard son in her household - Eragon's conception was a mistake, anyway. She didn't even send support checks. Eragon believed his mother had left him to go on some noble and dangerous deed which involved saving the world.

"Oh... alright, then. That name sucks... R's make all the difference... and A's rather than E's..."

"There is an R," Eragon said sharply. "ERRRRRRRRRRRRagon, remember?"

"I know, you're not bloody Eowyn! Although doubtless the chick you turn down in the future will be... anyway, you need two R's."

"I don't care."

"I know you don't. If you did, you would have grown a penis by now."

Tears sprung to Eragon's eyes. "How dare you exploit my weaknesses like that!" he shouted.

"If you can't take it from your own uncle, you sure as hell aren't going to do too well when you get recruited for war."

Eragon huffed and stomped upstairs. He saw his cousin, Ronan the centaur, although right now Ronan had stuffed his legs in a wheelchair. Can't let the mortals know you're not human, now, can we? Ronan was currently trying to go down the stairs in his magical wheelchair. Eragon chuckled, shaking his head, and walked into his room.

Eragon's room was plain and bare, like the average starving farmer's. However, he had a shitton of interesting crap, which he had spent his entire life collecting. He placed the shiny rock on the center of his collection (which covered his entire floor), then jumped over a moldy log with a mewling litter of kittens inside to land on his bed. Eragon pulled the covers over his head and shivered. Home sweet home.

Eragon was very excited two months later. The Pima County Fair traders were coming to Pail-and-Car Valley later that day. They were very late, because the winter was lasting longer than it usually did. This seasonal opening in a regular village with a single father in a fantasy novel is very common, we promise you. Yeah. Even the great Robert Jordan used it . . . he was the only one . . . but nevermind that, that is completely unrelated.

"We're going to sell your kittens," Amycus announced as he strode into the kitchen where Eragon and Ronan were fighting over a burnt, shriveled and dry crust of bread for breakfast. It was common to have luxuries on the day the traders arrived. Ronan was currently fending Eragon off with his horse hooves.

"Ow! God, that is just not fair-" Eragon began to complain as Ronan kicked him in the face.

"You held the crust of bread over my head when we were in public and I had to sit in that magical wheelchair," Ronan protested. "So ha!"

"Ronan, stop it, or I am going to have you shoed," Amycus said.

"Why can't he just always wear shoes like the rest of us civilized beings?" Eragon complained.

"Why can't you just nail your metal shoes into your feet like the rest of those civilized being, Ery?" Ronan asked.

"Calm down, you assholes," Amycus said.

"I am not an asshole!" Eragon snarled.

"Yes, you are," Ronan said. "And you are much more of an asshole than me, because your asshole takes up a bigger percentage of your body than mine does."

Eragon did not know what a percentage was, so he did not respond except to stick out his tongue.

"True as that may be," said Amycus, "You have a huge asshole, Ronan."

"But my shit isn't as stinky as yours, _Father_," Ronan retorted.

"Yes it is!"

"No, it's not, you use it for manure. Literally, you make me go outside and shit in the compost bin."

"Whatever," said Amycus. He tossed each of the people living in his house an eighth of a penny. Money was worth more back in the days, remember, children. "And Eragon, we are selling those kittens, and the moldy log they live in."

"You cannot!" Eragon protested. "That is my moldy log, not yours! I bought it with my own money!"

"Yep..."

"I did! I told you I just didn't catch anything, but actually I traded the handsome stag I brutally killed with a walnut for that moldy log. Old Cenn Buie - ah, I mean, that old guy who likes to complain - was happy to sell it to me."

"Really?" asked Ronan. "You asshole, Eragon! Your namesake would never have done that!"

"Who is my namesake?"

"I don't know, but he can't have been as much of an asshole as you."

"Stop bickering, you two!" Amycus ordered.

"He started-"

"No, he-"

"I could not give less of a fuck. Get out of the house before I send you _both_ off to get ovalicular pieces of metal nailed to the soles of your feet."

The cousins needed no further prodding. Eragon jumped onto Ronan's back ("Bane is going to _kill_ me for this," Ronan muttered), and the two of them sped off down the hundred mile road to the village.

They reached the traders' campsite several weeks later. Ronan ran off to his exclusive clique of perfectly human friends. Eragon mournfully wandered about the stalls, knowing he had absolutely nothing to spend and giving puppy eyes to the vendors. They chased him away with brooms, thrown stones, and thrown bottles of acid; they shot arrows, shot burning arrows, and shot acid-covered burning arrows at him. Eragon walked away in a huff. No one liked him.

Eragon huffed around until he came to Broom, the hermitlike, bearded, obese old perv who lived in a dirty hut at the edge of town. He had earned his name through his fetish_affinity_ for broomstick handles.

"Arag - Eragon!" Broom huffed. "Let's go have a drink, why don't we? It's on me," he added, as Eragon opened his mouth to suggest Broom bought him lunch as well.

So they headed to the village tavern which was there all year, definitely the height of the attractions. Broom sat on a stool, which crumbled under his weight. Cursing in many languages Eragon didn't understand, Broom stood, brought three stools together, and leapt atop them with the nimbleness of an elf. A very old, arthritic, drunk elf.

"Bartender! I want *whatever that drink is that people use to get others drunk so they can have sex* and a shot of vodka," Broom demanded, banging his fists on the countertop.

"And for the boy?"

"The first is for the boy."

"I'm not a boy!" Eragon protested. "I'm a full grown man!" To prove his point, he stood as tall as he could, stomping his foot for extra measure. Broom, the bartender, and anyone else who happened to see fell to the ground in their laughter. One of the five year old girls in the bar patted Eragon on the head comfortingly. Another suggested he get his next pair of boots with at least an inch of heel. Eragon pouted; he already had an inch of heel, and he couldn't walk on two. He'd tried, but eventually gave up and gave that pair of boots to Ronan. For whatever reason, his cousin found that offensive and instead masturbated into the boots.

Just as Eragon was about to drink his *whatever the hell it is*, however, Amycus strode into the bar and promptly ordered "the damn strongest stuff you've got."

"DON'T DRINK THAT! IT'S POISON!" he screamed, knocking the bottle out of his nephew's hand. He then promptly turned to Broom. "You have to pay me first."

"Aw, Amy . . ." Broom protested. "I wuz just gonna have some fun wiv him . . ."

"No pay, no gay . . . sex. Shit, that didn't even rhyme, did it?"

"I'm between welfare checks, okay?" Broom said.

"You heard me." Amycus replied. He was unable to press his point farther, however, as the bartender appeared with his drink. Without a moment's hesitation, Amycus began to drown his sorrows, hitting the floor and merrily singing "The Mossy Mountains." Eragon shook his head and left the bar to avoid further embarrassment.

Eragon found his beautiful blue rock stashed outside the tavern. _Now, how did that get there?_ he wondered. He picked it up and decided to go and sell it. Maybe he could spend the money on that vibrator he so wanted . . .

Upon entering a random merchant's tent, Eragon was . . . well, he was promptly chased out, with a lump of mud dripping down his already filthy hair as a reminder not to return.

Several hours later, though, Eragon found a slightly deranged trader who took his rock, banged it with several of his 'shinies' (including but not limited to: swiped keys, nails which sparkled, all sorts of jewelry which could be sold for a hefty amount of gold if it wasn't covered in sticky white stuff, tinsel, something called a 'battery', and sparkly fabric. That produced the most charming tinkle of all when beat against the blue rock), and decided that it was not of any value due to many dents which had mysteriously appeared all over its surface.

Grumbling but secretly grateful, Eragon took the rock back home. On his way, however, he saw a pretty girl called Katrina doing the downward dog in an alleyway, stark naked. Ronan had his front hooves placed on the wall in front of her, and they were having some bizarre form of horse-human sex. "Harder! Harder! Harder! Harder or I'll have you chopped up into horse meat!" she screamed. As Eragon watched, they separated and began making out passionately. He hoped they would not begin to have oral sex; Katrina might choke.

Eragon returned home to find Amycus passed out on the dining room table, a nearly empty bottle of beer clutched in one hand. Chugging the rest of the beer, Eragon ran to his room, hid the blue rock underneath his five year old Scream mask, grabbed his makeup and Sharpies, and returned to the dining room, where he proceeded to give Amycus lipstick, blush, eyeshadow, a unibrow, a mustache, a penis coming out of his mouth, and a Harry Potter scar before hurriedly returning to his room.

**ERAGON IS FANFICTION ERAGON IS FANFICTION ERAGON IS FANFICTION**

**Most people reading this will disagree - or most people who read the top AN do. You probably haven't put up with this story all the way to the bottom. And as you most likely disagree, I urge you to contemplate Eragon and Arya's names (as well as Paolini's understanding of vowel sounds concerning the latter). Once you have made a thorough contemplation of this, contemplate Aragorn and Arwen. And then review. Reviews are good.**

**This will be a multi-chapter fic, although it is highly unlikely anyone will be much inclined to read the next chapter. Especially after that lovely author's note. Still . . .**

**Reviews?**


	2. Broom's Story

**Hi all! (That is to say, hi those seventy or so people who have actually read this . . . no, not that. Hi, those thirty people who are stupid enough to proceed on to the next chapter!) Keep going at the pace I'm going, and I'll finish this sometime in the next two decades. Oh, and have I mentioned that I haven't exactly finished Eldest yet? Ah well.**

**Enjoy!**

As Eragon slept that night, he kept hearing strange things, such as cracking noises and dragon roars. _I suppose the kittens must be acting up,_ he thought. They were beginning to get much too big for that moldy log, after all. He rolled over and went back to sleep.

Eragon awoke to find a giant lizard staring him in the face and trying to coax his tongue from his mouth like a robin would a worm. Eragon gave a strangled yell, upon which the lizard leapt away. Eragon wasn't sure where this thing had come from, but he noticed it had wings. Only one reptilian beast had wings, and they were just like platypi. Most folk called them _Draco_ . . . no, that's not right. This thing wasn't blonde. Okay, try again. Most folk called them . . . _funny winged lizards SHIT! _That's not right, either. You know what? Screw it. Just look on the back cover. There's got to be something about this creature on there.

_I must hide this hideous being from the world,_ Eragon thought. _Otherwise it will be taken to a freak show, paraded around like a freak for many years, then hidden in an opera house where it will be a pedophile and make pathetic attempts at a Beauty and the Beast and the Peeta Who is Just Kind of There retelling. And it will have a singing voice fetish. We don't want that._

To make sure his pet whatever the hell it was didn't live that particular very unlikely life (especially for a winged reptile), Eragon scooped up the beast and hid it underneath the his mattress just as Ronan yelled "What's happening? Eragon, darling, are you alright?!"

Or Eragon imagined he yelled that. What he actually yelled was "Shut up, I'm trying to sleep!"

Eragon yawned. He was rather tired, too. Perhaps he could deal with this misfit creature in the morning. Yawning again, Eragon curled up under the covers and fell asleep instantly.

Eragon was awakened the next morning by a pounding on his door. "Eragon! Get your ass up here!" Ronan yelled. "Uncle Amycus says we have to plow the fields before we can go back to pickpocket the traders!"

"Come get me!" Eragon yelled back. He was not a morning person.

"No way! I'm not walking through that disaster you call a room!"

"Fine." Swearing fluently, Eragon rose, put on pants, gave the kittens a fresh bowl of water from the well outside, and finally exited his room. Only after all this did he remember the winged lizard inside his room. Ah, well . . . it could wait. He wanted to ogle at the traders again.

Once outside, Eragon hitched Ronan up to the plough (his family was too poor to afford an ox or a mule). With the extensive use of Ronan's new whip (a gift to him from Katrina), the cousins finished ploughing the field in no time.

"Eragon, you asshole!" Ronan roared. "That really hurt! I mean, it _really_ hurt! I think you broke the skin."

"Hey, you're not the only one in pain," Eragon retorted. "I mean, I _stubbed my toe_ here."

"I don't give a damn about your toe. I'm not giving you a ride to Pail-and-Car Valley today."

"What!? Ronan, that's not fair. You _always_ give me a ride on the second day. How am I supposed to walk on this stubbed toe, anyway?"

"Ronan!" Amycus barked as the cousins came in to eat their meagre breakfast of roast pork, scrambled eggs, carrots, apples, and oats. "Go outside!"

"Why!?" Ronan demanded. Being a centaur, he took this a little personally; a friend of his had had to sleep in a stable.

"You're bleeding all over the place," Amycus said.

"I think you'll find that's my blood," Eragon said, both to defend his cousin and to make sure his own suffering was not overlooked. "I stubbed my toe, you see."

Once they were at the village, Ronan once again departed to hang out with his buddies. Having no friends or romantic affections of his own, Eragon moped around the village all day. He noticed two men in black cloaks. He noticed many men in cloaks, actually, as this was the main article of clothing people used to keep warm, but these men in cloaks were special. They were . . . different. Eragon wasn't sure how, but he just _knew._

As the sun began to set, people were gathered around a big stage. Why there was need of a stage in this village no one knew; they certainly didn't act or dance. Some of the traders did, though, and Eragon saw marvellous foreign dances such as the worm, the twerk, and the Harlem Shake.

At long last, the dancers were tired. Someone called out, "Tell us a story!" To whom they were calling it was unclear, but everyone else took up the chant. Broom, who liked to be known as the village storyteller, finally wheezed, "Alright, alright!" Everyone groaned; Broom's stories were usually about the young children he had . . . _affections_ for.

Wheezing, Broom waddled up to the stage, attempted to climb atop it, discovered he couldn't lift his legs that high, and finally settled with sitting on it. He then began his story.

_There was once a little boy named Tom Riddle. Tom Riddle lived in an orphanage in London, where he . . . crap. Wrong story._ The villagers groaned. Broom pretended not to notice and started again.

_There was once a little midget named Smeagol. Smeagol . . ._

"We don't give a shit!" someone yelled. The rest of the villagers took up the chant. _We don't give a shit, we don't give a shit, we don't give a shit . . ._ Broom sighed. He tried to yell and get the villagers' attention, but to no avail. He tried getting up on the stage somehow and waving his arms, but the attempt proved fruitless. Even the funky chicken dance had no effect on the relentless chanting. So, in a last-ditch attempt, Broom farted.

The whole valley went silent as the smell pervaded the air. Some moaned in agony; others fainted; still others assumed the fetal position and cried for mommy. Broom waited until the attention was yet again on him.

_The Wheel of Time turns, and Ages come and pass, leaving memories that become legend. Legend fades to myth, and even myth is long forgotten when the Age that gave it birth comes again. In one Age, called the Third Age by some, an Age yet to come, an Age long past, a little boy was born. The boy was not a beginning. There are neither beginnings nor endings to the turning of the Wheel of Time. But it was a beginning._

Broom paused. "That is a fuckin' lot longer when it's not in a tiny font."

_Anyway . . . one time, a long time ago (like, a seriously long time ago. You weren't even born. Heck, your daddy wasn't even born. Maybe his daddy wasn't born. Maybe even _his _. . . oh, you get what I mean), there were these dudes. They were pretty cool. They were called the Dragon Men._

_Dragon Men were seriously awesome. They were like angels, full of light and goodness and the Light and all their acts they did for good. Thus, they lived forever unless someone killed them, which evidently happened pretty often, 'cause there weren't too many. They were also impossible to kill, though, 'cause they were like super strong and shit. And magic. They were also magical. And there was lots of magic in their pants. I would know. But do you wanna know what made the Dragon Men super special? They rode _dragons.

_Oh, you don't know what dragons are?_ Brom launched into a lengthy description of dragons. "...and they've got these super long eyebrows, kinda like the antennae of an insect, plus also there's like, horns and crap coming outta their eyebrows. Dragon eyebrows are _cool,_ man."

So _that's_ what it is, Eragon thought. He understood now. The weird little thing in his bedroom was a _dragon._

"Get back to the story!" someone yelled.

After a exhausting his vocabulary of positive adjectives with which to describe the Dragon Men, Broom continued with his story.

_And one day there was this kid called Galbixoritax - er, Geldatorix - no, no, that's not right - Galaxitor - Galaxy? Oh, screw it. Everyone called him Galby._

_So Galby was this kid who was real good at Dragon Manning, so he became a Dragon Man. They are also called Men for short. So Galby was a very good Man. Teachers liked him, because he was a very bright and handsome young orphan. However, Galby never had - or wanted - a friend._

_So after Galby finished his training, he went on a big trip with his friends, who were little more than cronies, really. They were Dragon Men, too. Their names were Bel - well, you don't need to know that. But anyway, they were attacked by - guess what? What attacks everyone in your typical D&D game? __GOBLINS__. Shit. __ORCS __No, damn it. Er, they were, they were . . . __TROLLOCS__. Fuck . . . oh, I know! Urgals. Yeah. They were _Urgals.

_So anyway, the Urgals, like, killed Sev - Galby's buddies. Cronies. Whatever the hell they were. And they killed their dragons, too. But Galby was special, so he didn't die. He killeded ALL the Urgals. But one of the Urgals, named Bard the. . . but you don't need to know that. The Urgal shot Galby's dragon's weak spot, where it lacked a scale on its stomach. And, lacking proper healing skills, Galby was unable to save it. His dragon bled to death from a single arrow wound in about two minutes._

_How do I know this, you ask? __Plot convenience__. 'Cuz I do, that's why, you asshole. Now do you want to keep asking stupid questions, or do you want to hear the story?_

"Stupid questions!" the villagers hollered. Broom pretended not to hear them.

_This was when Galby went nuts. He got all depressed and dysfunctional, but he was so cool that he didn't even die. Or gain weight, or stop shaving, or give himself infected wounds by accident because his razor was rusty, or any of those things. In fact, he was so cool that he made it back to the Dragon Man Clubhouse almost unharmed._

_While he was journeying, however, Galby realized something; he was lonely. He wanted a new dragon, so they could sex talk while they flew over the countryside. He _really _wanted a new dragon._

_He slept a lot at the Dragon Man Clubhouse. When he awoke, he asked for a new dragon, because his old one was brutally murdered. However, his desperate pleading revealed that he was really, deeply off his rocker, so he was sent to an insane asylum._

_Remember that, kids. Don't ever plead and beg for a new dog. It means you're 're erecting an insane asylum of our own, once King Galby sends us the money . . . shit. Forgot to say spoiler alert._

_But, being as cool as he was, Galby escaped the insane asylum and began to live in the wilderness, living on naught but berries, bark, and whatever he could hunt with his magic. Which was everything. He eventually found another Dragon Man called __Morgana_ _. . . __Morgan_ _. . . Morzan. Yeah, that's the one. He and Morzan had hot gay sex._

_Galby and Morzan announced themselves as a couple, but the Dragon Men wanted to make more Dragon Man babies, and Galby and Morzan couldn't make Dragon Man babies together. The two of them were banished from Dragon Man City, now known as Ru'ru'ba'ee'nu'fu'ku'guacamole'poo, our capital. {As we all know, apostrophes in names bring a touch of fantasy}_

_Morzan entered Galby's dark apprenticeship, where he learned secrets and amazing magic tricks lost to the ages._ Something about Broom's boner said that these weren't tricks confined to the battlefield.

_But anyway, they kept on being bad together, and starving in the woods, and doing magic, until twelve more of the hundreds of Dragon Men joined them. These twelve became the Thirteen __Forsaken_ _Forsworn, and they were EVIL._

"Twelve doesn't equal thirteen, dummy!" someone shouted. Eragon suspected it was one of the traders. Those rich bastards were always so keen to flaunt their higher educations, which of course the villagers didn't have access to.

_Does it look like I give a shit, motherfucker? Ha. Thought not._

_So anyway, Morzan, Lanfear, Be'lal and Sammael and all the other Forsworn took on the Dragon Men. The Men tried to fight, but thirteen whole people, plus Galby, who now rode astride a komodo dragon . . . anyway, thirteen people were too much for them. They all died._

_However, the wise and aged leader of the Dragon Men, Alby, stood and fought Galby. They fought long and hard, but alas, Alby's arthritis caused him to stumble and drop his sword. He picked it up, though, ignoring his screaming bad back, and defeated Galby._

_But it was not over yet. Using his powers of sweet seduction, Galby seduced Alby, and the two of them had hot gay sex 'til sunrise. Then Galby cruelly chopped off Alby's penis before he departed, taking the crumbly, wrinkled thing with him as a souvenir. Alby died of depression three minutes later._

_Then, raising Alby's severed penis high above his head, Galby declared himself ruler of all Alagazioo - Alagiazi - er, Anagaysha? Anaconda? Yeah, that's it. King Galby is now ruler of all Anaconda. The end._

Broom made a sweeping bow, which caused him to overbalance and topple off the stage. The villagers exploded into cheers; it was a rare event that they heard the story of their evil and tyrannical ruler, King Galby.

**I'm hoping at least some people got all the Wheel of Time references in there . . . reviews?**


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